


Peter Rabbit and the Little Red Hole

by Maggie_Conagher



Series: Peter Rabbit [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Easter, Jumper - Freeform, M/M, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:10:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Conagher/pseuds/Maggie_Conagher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John buys some adult footy pajamas on clearance. Whacky hi jinks ensue. </p>
<p>Word Count c. 1453</p>
<p>Delicious coverart by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom">moonblossom</a></p>
<p>Until I can get the pic to show properly, here is the link</p>
<p>
  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/531806">Coverart</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peter Rabbit and the Little Red Hole

“Do I dare?” John Watson asked himself, holding the adult sized footy pajamas in his hand.

Because of the recent unseasonably warm temperatures, Mrs. Hudson was refusing to have the boiler back on even though forecasts put Easter weekend twenty degrees below the current balmy climate. It was going to rain too, great torrents of it for days. The flat was already frigid at night with emergence from the duvet a screaming insult and a wakeup call more permanent than a tin alarm clock.

He had been standing in front of the clearance display far too long. The sizes decided for him if seventy five percent off did not. They were on sale because they were the off sizes that he needed. Extra long for Sherlock, gray with little pink nosed, long eared bunnies. For himself, pale blue with little yellow chicks. He ignored the label that said extra small; it was a label for height not cock size, but still.

Once they were paid for and a sensible shirt for work also procured and purchased, John was outside the shop to a corner away from prying eyes to pet the fleecy fabric. The soft warmth took him back to a time before he knew about wars and death; to a time when his parents were still kind and Harry was his friend. He wore blanket sleepers when he was prone to kicking off the covers, not because he was having PTSD nightmares but because he dreamed about riding a bicycle or playing with a puppy.

Sherlock did not share his nostalgia. “You want me to wear that?”

“Just for the holiday. While it’s cold. They’re soft. See?” John rubbed the fleece against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Don’t!” Sherlock jerked away as if it were poison.

“Fine, keep your bloody coat on, but when you steal the covers tonight, I’ll still be warm even if I need to use the loo.”

“How does one do that in those fluffy (said with a wince) all encompassing garments?”

John demonstrated the back flap, including hand motions for how it rested down the back of a person’s legs and not in the bowl, and then he showed a modern improvement since his boyhood ones with the cowboys. The adult version had a smaller zipper hidden below the mainline one, a secret fly. No need to chill the whole body when draining the pipes. “Baby cocks,” he said gesturing at the chicks. “Big cock,” he said, wiggling his fingers in the opening.

“You’d have to burn all my clothes and fly me to Siberia to get me in that,” Sherlock said and turned back to his experiment.

John had toughened up considerably since the beginning, but the constant chill in the air as well as thoughts of boyhood had him a little vulnerable. He put himself to bed early, with a bath, then a cup of cocoa and a novel. The blissful warmth and companionship of the baby chicks had him nodding over the second page. He petted his own belly until he fell asleep.

Morning came with Sherlock’s arms and legs wrapped around him. When John began to extricate himself, Sherlock clung and nuzzled, but John was not going to allow Sherlock to enjoy the comfort of the sleeper from the outside when he refused to wear one.

After a toasty visit to the loo, John went to the kitchen and prepared an extra large breakfast for himself, one he would likely be eating alone, but he made enough for two. His feet were happily warm on the frigid lino of the kitchen even though he could see the puffs of his breath while he cooked. Bacon, eggs, mushrooms, beans, tomato, and toast with jam. Coffee instead of tea. The flat smelled as close to heaven as any combined lab and living quarters could.

Sherlock appeared just as John was dishing things onto his plate. He yelped when his bare feet hit the kitchen floor. John walked past without a word, carrying his plate to the sitting room table and propping up his book.

Sherlock reappeared, resplendent in baby rabbits, plate and mug in hand. He would not meet John’s gaze. Breakfast was silent except for the occasional groan as a bit of crisp bacon or peach jam tasted of miracles. John unclenched further. A holiday pending with no cases, no Holmes’ family appearance required, no party with friends to be insulted. They had been on case after case nonstop as well as his longer hours at the surgery during cold and flu season. Taking stock, he realized he needed rest, good food, and several shags to make it a proper celebration.

With contrition, Sherlock took both empty plates and moved toward the kitchen, his usual grace limited by the scuff of the non-slip soles. Then John saw his Easter miracle. Sherlock’s glowing, glorious, globes of ass framed by soft gray fleece. The trap door was fully open.

John picked up the empty mugs and followed, feasting his eyes on the sway of his second favorite part of his lover. When all the dishes were safe in the sink, John cupped his hands around that most cuppable part. Sherlock yipped for the second time in twenty four hours. “Cold hands, John.”

“Sorry, love,” John said, withdrawing and warming them in his fleecy armpits. “I should have asked first.”

“Should have got the lube first,” Sherlock corrected, the scuff slide of his gait heading toward the bedroom.

John started to follow but Sherlock called back, “Stay there.”

So John listened to the scuffing, the creak of the night table drawer, the creak of the bureau drawer, some rummaging, and then more scuffing. Finally Sherlock was coming towards him with the lube in hand, but this fact hardly registered because Sherlock had a pink and gray argyle sock protruding from the front of his new pajamas and there was definitely bobbing with occasional weaving. He placed his hands firmly on the kitchen table and wiggled his feet apart into a ‘frisk me’ stance.

John waited for the carousel that the kitchen had become to stop and let them off. While he waited, his hands decided that keeping Sherlock’s sweet ass warm was the most prudent course of action. John fondled and warmed, and when a stroke/heart attack/dead faint did not occur, he knelt and gave thanks at Our Lady of the Heart Shaped Ass and the kissing and licking and probing and sucking were greeted with a holy chorus of “oh god’s.”

There was preparation and entry and business as usual but enhanced by six foot of consulting fleece and the smiling, nodding visage of one hundred little bunny faces and one hundred twitching pink noses. John was fucking a cloud on Sunnyfuck Farm.

He rested his cheek on the soft, warm bunny laden shoulder; he nuzzled, he grunted, he whimpered. Then he remembered that Sherlock needed a helping hand. His own arousal went up to eleven when he gripped his partner’s cashmere clad cock. Steel wrapped in more warmth and softness. His hand glided; Sherlock shouted encouragement. 

His other hand gripped the excess fleece and serendipitously one of Sherlock’s nipples. There was an answering internal squeeze to his cock. With what little vision he had left between the dancing black dots, John saw the bunnies’ ears move from ten and two to high noon and then surrounded by the vapor of their pantings and groanings, John hid his Easter eggs in Sherlock’s basket and Sherlock filled his sock.

They crawled under the table and lay on their sides, blowing clouds into each other’s faces. “If we were seahorses, we just made babies.”

“I think we’ve got quite enough animals to be going on with,” Sherlock said, removing his sock and using it to mop up behind him.

“Turn round,” John said, finishing the clean up and tucking his greatest temptation away, smoothing the flap closed with the Velcro.

Sherlock used the sock to tidy up John and then tucked his favorite toy back into the coop and zipped up.

They were huddled and cuddled and nearly too warm, dozy in the heat when John summoned the courage to ask, “Why the sock?”

“It’s very cold.”

“Shrinkage.”

“A Holmes doesn’t shrink.”

“Then why the sock?”

“It had to match, John.”

“No rabbit socks in the index?”

“No chickens either for when it’s your turn. But I do have some pale blue angora.”

John was nearly asleep when the tearing sound of Velcro brought him back. Long fingers slipped inside and rubbed across his cheeks and cleft. Sherlock’s afterglow voice rumbled in his ear, “Did they have these in purple?”

John’s voice was equally low. “Fetch the angora, love. The pair.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Peter Rabbit and the Little Red Hole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/531806) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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